


Petals

by SkywardGeek



Series: Original Works [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Original Fiction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywardGeek/pseuds/SkywardGeek
Relationships: Author/Other
Series: Original Works [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/887826





	Petals

**Petals**

She murmured the words as she delicately plucked petals from a tiny daisy.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

But what did a flower know of love? The wind may caress its petals and stroke its stem. The birds may sing serenades to its beauty. The bees and butterflies may bring presents of pollen. But is that love? Or, more importantly, is that love to a flower?

Her lap was littered with these questions, the wind catching them and lifting them into her eyes. But she still had so many more to ask.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

And what if the breeze’s touch wasn’t love to this daisy? But the daisy she didn’t pluck from the ground is overjoyed with these affections? What if the bird’s song is an insult to the daisy but the tulips in the flowerbeds listen with envy, wishing someone could love them that strongly? And what if the presents from the bees lay forgotten by the flowers, but would be so appreciated by the trees with blossoms in their branches?

And would the wind still love the flower even so? Even if the flower can’t love back? Do the birds mean what they sing? Are bees and butterflies bribing and buying love? Does the flower know how much of itself it has to give up to know these answers? But still she asks them all the same.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

Was this love? Slowly plucking away the petals of a flower. Stripping yourself down to nothing but the basics, removing all the frills you donned to attract those birds and bees and butterflies. Is love something you can only feel, like the wind gracing your petals?

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

This couldn’t be love; love was destroying the daisy. If this was love, the daisy would die because of it. Pulled from the earth, stripped of everything people could use to identify it. That couldn’t be love.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

She wanted answers but there were none to be given. Certainly not from a flower. But she didn’t have the answers, and no one was willing to provide them. She needed to find them.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

But how? How could she answer these questions? She didn’t know love. No one loved her - unless a flower was about to tell her otherwise - and she wasn’t sure she loved anyone in return.

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

_He loves me…_

_…He loves me not_

_She loves me…_

_…She loves me not_

_They love me…_

_…They love me not_

The flower was running out of petals. She would never run out of questions.


End file.
